Hospital Ennui: Alleviating the Boredom
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Sherlock's hospitalised and very bored. An account of what eventually becomes Operation Ennui. The gears in the younger Holmes brother creak with ominous curiosity... now last chapter in which Sherlock is finally discharged home.
1. Ch 1: Bored

**A/N: I'm bored. Therefore, by transference, I've decided my favourite detective must be bored. Hence, this silly story about Sherlock trying to stir up a little excitement in his life while confined to a hospital bed. I'm not sure if I'll continue it. Maybe if someone can come up with additional ideas of how a person can cause mischief in a U.K. hospital?**

**I love your reviews and comments. Additional suggestions would be welcome too.**

Disclaimer: I don't own anything or make any profit on this, obviously. Warnings for silliness. Escapades therein should not be attempted in real life. Never been in a U.K. hospital so don't know if it's all really possible either. All medical personnel are advised to put on their imaginary medical blinders.

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Being in the hospital is boring. Once the initial adrenaline rush of waking up from a near-death experience had worn off, the great consulting detective found himself bored. Bored – utterly and interminably bored.

For the moment, he was confined to his bed by a spider web of IV tubing and electrical wires attached to his chest for continuous cardiac monitoring. No amount of morphine could dull the boredom that itched in his veins and beat a monotone death toll in his head.

His pale eyes, pupils pinpoint and dagger sharp gazed round and catalogued his hospital cell. He made a mental note to swipe his next visitor's mobile phone until his own was returned as ransom.

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration and retreated into his mind palace. Surely there was something within the palisade walls to stem the endless ennui. He dashed from room to room, frantic. "I need a case," he growled through gritted teeth. "Anything, maybe something from the old cold-case files…"

In spite of his mad dashings about in his memory recesses, a suitable crime to solve was not to be found. "Damn," he complained. Suddenly he opened a smaller door, the handle rusted and covered in dust. An idea. Something new and novel. A plan. Sherlock's lashes fluttered open. A slow smile spread across his face. The gears in the younger Holmes brother creaked with ominous curiosity.

Sherlock followed the maze of clear IV tubing originating in his left arm and traced one branch to a bag of fluid hanging on a pole above his bed. He twisted his torso and reached out his hand. "Ow!" Sherlock let out a low exclamation as the movement reactivated an echoing chorus of sharp pains from his wound. Pursing his lips together grimly, he more cautiously but deliberately got hold of the IV drip line leading from the most benign of the fluids flowing into his system. Wisely, he left the morphine and antibiotic drips alone.

His thin fingers kinked the tubing effectively cutting off the conduit of fluid. Sherlock began the countdown.

He didn't have long to wait. Thirty seconds later the IV pump let out a piercing alarm blinking red alert. One hundred and thirty-seven seconds after this, a flustered nurse huffed into his room. "What's happened?" she exclaimed as her charge innocently shifted back under the bed sheets.

Sherlock moaned and squeezed his eyes. "Please, can't you make that infernal noise stop?"

Nurse Lydia squeezed next to the bed to reach the silence button on the pump. She checked the equipment and the tubing. "Seems all right now." She shrugged. "Anything else you need while I'm here?"

Sherlock shook his head no. His left hand slid back under the covers.

As soon as the nurse had exited, Sherlock brought out the phone he'd nicked off her belt. "Ugh," he frowned. An intra-hospital phone. He couldn't call outside help on this one. He shoved it under his pillow. Perhaps it would come in handy later. He'd think about it.

Sherlock's curiosity was not satiated for long. He grimaced as he surveyed all the electrodes that dotted his chest. He could hear the steady blip of the cardiac monitor as his heart thudded along at regular intervals. How dull!

What would happen if he fiddled with the wires? The steady blips on the monitor wavered. He wove his fingers into the leads more precisely. By vibrating the wires simultaneously he could make the pattern on the screen look like a range of mountain peaks. He looked at the clock. It took forty-three seconds for an out of breath Nurse Lydia to dash frantically into his room. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, "I thought you were going into v-tach. I almost called a code on you." She wagged a warning finger at her patient.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that these stickers can be incredibly itchy?" Sherlock calmly answered. "Maybe I'm allergic." He stopped wiggling the wires and looked up at the nurse.

"I'll see about changing to a different brand," she finally replied after a long pause. She turned and glanced back suspiciously at him as she exited for the second time in less than half an hour.

Sherlock smirked.

Suddenly, his pillow cackled to life. "Lydia, could you come to room 205?" the phone he'd swiped earlier queried. "Your patient is asking for the bedpan."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. In his best imitation of nurse Lydia's voice he replied, "I can't come. Can you take care of him for me, please? I'm rather occupied at the moment." He left off with a soft moan of pleasure echoing from a short distance before ending the call.

"Mr Holmes!" Nurse Lydia burst into the room for a third time. Only four minutes and fifty-two seconds. Sherlock was impressed. "I should have known it was you." She glared over him and held out a hand. "Give me my phone – now."

With a shrug the detective pulled out the item and placed it meekly in her outstretched palm. "I found it after you left in such a hurry last time."

"You should be glad I go off shift soon," she murmured. She did not appear amused.

"You may be going off shift but so is that nurse, Mark." Sherlock began. "I suggest you avoid the lasagne at the restaurant you are meeting him at – too fattening to fit the diet you've been attempting since New Years."

Nurse Lydia frowned.

"If your husband drops by I'll be sure to explain that you are running an extended shift due to my extra special medical needs."

Nurse Lydia blushed, then scowled. "You better be careful what you say around nurses. Don't forget, you're on the receiving end of the needle these days." She turned and trotted out the room with a determined step.

Sherlock checked the clock. He groaned. It wasn't time for his next dose of morphine yet. Darn! He was still restless.

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**Any ideas for Sherlock on how he might alleviate the boredom on his hospitalisation?**


	2. Ch 2: Still Bored

**A/N: Yes, my dear readers. It was a very long social... as Holmes might say in ACD canon "...one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie." (NOBL). I had some more time to think... **

**Disclaimer: Again, do not recommend trying any of these ideas in real life. Medical blinders advised. Pure silliness.**

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Sherlock Holmes was still bored. Someone brought in his supper if one could actually call the shapeless masses on his plate food. He thought of his favourite comic strip 'Calvin and Hobbs' and formed a gloopy slug-monster out of his mashed potatoes, complete with ketchup drooling out its mouth, gobbling down frightened pea minions. He smashed several of the peas so their green guts trailed behind in the wake of such a ruthless killer potato.

Admittedly, the orderly who collected the tray was unimpressed. "Didn't you like your supper?" he asked.

Sherlock's eyes flicked from his tray and back to the orderly. He refused to answer such an absurd question.

"Keep your juice, you might want it for later." The orderly picked up the offending plate and departed.

Sherlock sighed, again. Even an idiot visitor could be useful. He felt his index fingers twitching. "Texting withdrawal." He needed his phone!

A tentative knock sounded on his door. "Is it ok to come in?" Molly's hesitant voice came through the crack in the open door.

"Come."

Molly entered looking rather uncomfortable and hiding behind a bouquet of flowers. "I know, I know… you probably don't do flowers… but," she shrugged, "Well, it is custom to bring something when visiting in the hospital." She stopped.

Sherlock frowned. "As if we didn't have enough inane traditions."

Molly didn't say anything.

"It's fine. You're right, custom and tradition. Better than a teddy bear or nose ring." Sherlock gave an awkward grin.

The pathologist relaxed a bit, relieved, and scuttled around to arrange the flowers on the opposite bedside stand. Then she sat down in the visitor chair.

"So, um, how are you?"

"Not dead, as you've observed," muttered Sherlock. He turned his head toward her and looked over. "I'm going to die of boredom soon unless you help me though." He smiled at her and his blue eyes danced. "You did so well helping me 'die' that perhaps you can help me remain alive too."

"I don't know. What do you have in mind?" Molly asked cautiously.

"You have access to things. Things I want. Things like chemicals and specimens and other things."

"Uh, no, Sherlock. You know I can't bring such things into the hospital. We'd both be in trouble."

The dark-haired detective rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated exasperation. "Fine, Molly. Then will you at least provide me with the necessary items for a small surprise? Dr Hoffman has been much too serious on his rounds. Every morning, 'How are you? Feeling better? Have you passed gas? Really tedious questions, you see."

Molly nodded and smiled.

Sherlock outlined his plan.

"You want to do what?" Molly gasped, "Serious? You're serious about this?!" She sat back and thought for a moment then burst out giggles. "I shouldn't…"

"Please?" the detective's pale eyes begged earnestly.

"Well, ok. I guess it can't hurt." Molly conceded. "Just this once though. And no mention of my name in connection with this – you understand? Otherwise no more morgue specimens – ever!"

"I won't breath a word," promised Sherlock.

Molly gathered up her coat and purse and headed out to collect the promised items. "Stay here," she admonished as she headed out the door. "It'll only be an hour."

Sherlock smiled and raised his hand with a limp wave.

~221b~

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered urgently into Molly's mobile that she'd conveniently left in her coat pocket within reach of his bed, "I need my phone now!"

"Brother, how nice to hear your voice," Mycroft purred. "I'm surprised it's taken you this long, in fact, to find someone's phone to highjack."

"I didn't steal it. Merely borrowing it while she runs an errand," Sherlock sniffed. "Now bring me my phone!"

Mycroft sighed. "A little patience might do you some good."

"Oh shut up, Mycroft! You know I'm not known for my patience."

"True."

"Besides, if anyone could know what it's like to be without real communication, without my connections to the world, it should be you. How long have you been without your mobile? Five maybe ten seconds, max?"

"You shall have your precious phone in less than an hour." Mycroft groaned as he hit the end-call key. "Brothers!"

By the time Molly arrived with the pre-arranged items, Sherlock had his mobile and was engrossed in catching up on the latest "useful" news.

"Here you are then," she said cheerfully as she set the package down next to the bed. "Do you want any help setting it up?"

"No thank you." Sherlock replied without looking up.

"Anything else you need?"

The curly haired man shook his head no.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" She sat down.

Sherlock continued scrolling and didn't seem to hear.

"Right then. I'll take that as a no." Molly was just about to disappear out the door when Sherlock suddenly looked up with alarm.

"Wait!"

"Yes?" Molly paused expectantly.

"You forgot this." He held out her phone.

"Oh, thank you. Don't know how I managed to leave it here. Didn't even notice it missing. Thanks for finding it."

"No trouble at all," his voice trailed off as he lost himself to the cyber world again.

"Well, bye." Molly waved and retraced her steps out of the hospital. Turning onto Long Street, she dug out her phone to look up the bus schedules for the day. "Dammit, Sherlock!" She smiled in spite of herself though. Leave it to the detective to nick her phone and return it with all the settings in Arabic. It was going to take a bit longer to get home tonight.

~221b~

Having caught up on his emails, Sherlock turned his attention to the contents of the brown paper bag Molly had imported to his room. He spent a bit of time arranging things just perfectly.

"How are you?" Dr Hoffman breezed into Sherlock's room and bent over to examine his patient. He tapped the thin man's stomach. "Have you eaten anything yet? I could advance your diet to something more solid if you like."

Sherlock made a face at the suggestion. Dr Hoffman ignored it. "Still passing gas? Any stool?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to ignore the doctor. "Doc, I have this pain here," he pointed to his lower stomach. "And, I think my pee is a funny colour."

Dr Hoffman nodded and prodded Sherlock's stomach again. Then he leaned over to check the catheter and urine collection bag. "I think we'll get rid of this," he nodded to the nurse and pointed out the detective's Foley catheter. Suddenly he froze. "What the f*?" He stared, his mouth dropped.

The nurse scooted over to get a better view of what the doctor was looking at. "What the…" She burst out in peals of giggles. "Oh, I'm sorry doc," she gasped as she tried unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.

Dr Hoffman straightened up and looked over at Sherlock.

The pale man stared back at him with a perfectly straight expression.

Suddenly the doctor let out a low chuckle and gazed at his patient with new appreciation. "Clever, my friend! I'm definitely going to have to keep a closer eye on you. I was warned but didn't think I needed to worry until you were a bit more mobile. I should have known…" He shook his head still chuckling.

The nurse still bent low and gazed wide-eyed at the goldfish swimming innocently around in a Foley catheter bag filled with water and strategically attached at the end of the bed. "The real one is under the covers," Sherlock remarked.

"But how…" the nurse's voice trailed off in awe as she resumed her position at the clipboard.

"Had to empty the real bag, of course," Sherlock confessed. "I did save a sample though – just in case you wanted to run any tests." He pulled a small urine collection cup with yellow pee inside from his bedside stand. "Might want to check it for sugar. It smelled a bit fruity to me." He unscrewed the lid, sniffed a second, and took a sip, "Mmm… tastes sweet too."

The nurse gasped and covered her mouth, horrified.

Dr Hoffman's eyes twinkled. "Nice try, young man, but I've seen that one before."

"But he drank his own pee?!" the nurse exclaimed.

"Well, urine is sterile, after all. No harm in it." The doctor shrugged without concern.

Sherlock pouted just a tiny bit. Boo. Dr Hofffman wasn't as much of an idiot as he'd originally assessed. He'd need to reboot his deductive skills again.

"But, doctor…" the nurse stuttered, still confused.

Dr Hoffman smiled. "Thanks for livening up my morning, Mr Holmes." He picked up the pee cup and took a sip, "Cheers to apple juice."


	3. Ch 3: Bored and Out of Bed

**A/N: Again, general disclaimers apply. This is more a "filler" chapter. Read at your own risk of brain drain. No guarantees this contains that much humour. Hopefully, have some ideas for chapter 4 that will be more smile-inducing. *shrug* We'll see... your reviews are always appreciated!**

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Chapter 3: Bored And Out Of Bed

After Dr Hoffman and his nurse, Joyce, had exited Sherlock's hospital room, a.k.a. cell, the tube-tied detective shifted down under the sheets, resignedly. Ten more minutes until his next morphine top-up. He wondered if he could sleep away some of this sick-enforced confinement period. Perhaps he could convince Dr Hoffman that he required a Ketamine-induce coma until he his body caught up to his mind's agility. Groan. Probably not. He frowned and closed his eyes. Life was so dull. He decided to practise his breath-holding exercises. _Breathing is boring_… he remembered mentioning that once upon a time to John. He contemplated the physiology of surviving without breathing. Artificial gills? It was all a matter of the carbon dioxide building up in the blood anyway. If he could figure out how to dissipate the CO2 he'd be able to suppress his diaphragmatic spasms that involuntarily took over after several minutes. He drifted off into a restless dream state while contemplating the evaporation coefficient versus heart rate and flow velocity.

He awoke with a start to see one of the nurses, Janet by her name badge, leaning over him with an empty syringe. He blinked rapidly, conscious thoughts fired at lightening speed across his synapses trying to orient himself to person, place, and time.

Janet spoke first. "Sorry, Mr Holmes. I didn't mean to startle you. Dr Hoffman wrote orders to remove your catheter today."

Sherlock's brain processed this information. Memory confirmed the truth in her statement. He frowned. Tubes entering or exiting his body was not exactly the most comforting of thoughts to imagine. "Now?" his mouth was dry and the word came out a bit to too croaky for his liking.

Janet nodded. "It'll only take a second. Nothing to fear, Mr Holmes." She noticed the sudden apprehension that appeared on the pale man's face. "It's a lot easier coming out than going in." She inserted the syringe tip into the port on the rubber Foley tube and withdrew the saline in the anchoring balloon.

For once, the borderline narcissistic detective who dared to defy social etiquette with embarrassing deductions at the most inappropriate times, kept his mouth firmly closed. He wisely decided this was not the time to tell Janet that he could tell she was cheating on her fiancée who worked in the I.T. department with another nurse colleague.

"On the count of three," Janet looked up at Sherlock. "One, two…" she swiftly removed the catheter.

"Three."

"F*!" Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Too late," Janet chimed. "I pulled it out on two, you yelped on three."

"You were supposed to take it out on the count of three," Sherlock pouted slightly.

"What? And prolong the anticipation?" Janet cocked an eyebrow at the detective.

"Well, no…" he lowered his eyes.

"OK then. Finished. Have you ordered breakfast yet?" Janet switched gears efficiently.

"Yes."

"I'll be off then. I'll check on you later. Press the call button if you need anything."

Sherlock nodded. "I could use a cigarette?" he suggested hopefully.

Janet smiled and shook her head. "Sorry, you know the rules. Besides you already have the patch."

"But one patch is not enough!" Sherlock tried to explain.

"It's the highest allowed nicotine dose you're going to get in this hospital," the nurse commented as she exited.

Dull! He huffed and hunkered down into his bed to sulk.

~221b~

"Sherlock?" John tried to judge whether his friend was sleeping or just browsing inside his mind palace.

"John," his eyes opened with genuine pleasure. "You're here."

The shorter man settled down into a visitor chair.

Neither man spoke for a few moments.

"Well, this is a bit awkward," John spoke aloud at last.

Sherlock gave John an agreeing eye-roll.

"Um… how did Janine take the news of your less-than-truthful relationship," John began hesitantly.

"Fine. She's fine, John." Sherlock snapped back.

"Some interesting stories in the papers. Any truth to them?"

"None whatsoever, John," Sherlock sighed.

"Anything you want chat about?"

"No. I don't do 'chatting', remember?" Sherlock sniffed.

Silence.

"I'm bored," Sherlock finally blurted out. "Look!" his arachnid fingers imbedded themselves in his disorderly curls. "My mind is dying – dying of starvation!"

"Oh, guess that's not really surprising," his knowing flatmate remarked dryly.

"I've been stuck in this one room for ages and ages… can you get me out?" He looked at his former flatmate with pleading eyes, anguish exquisitely expressed in every detail. "Please."

"I guess I could request a wheelchair…." John looked at Sherlock with a professional eye. "Are you strong enough to stand up?"

"Yes, of course!"

After a suitable period, John finally bade his friend goodbye for the day. He left Sherlock still seated in his wheelchair, hanging out in the hospital hallway near the nurse station on Ward B.

It was better than watching the barren white walls in his isolated hospital room. Sherlock had wheels. Mobility was still limited, admittedly, but…

Shift change. Sherlock observed the patterns. With a touch of ingenuity, good luck, and darn good acting skills (Sherlock congratulated himself on his drama proficiency), the consulting detective, turned hospital invalid, managed to access the computers on the ward. A few clicks of the keys was all he had time for. It was all he needed. He wheeled himself gingerly over to another corner for an improved viewpoint when the new shift of nurses took over for the night.

"What the…?!" The charge nurse clicked her mouse repeatedly, tapped the roller ball, and finally jabbed randomly at the computer keyboard. "Is anyone else's computer having problems?" she called over to her colleagues.

A chorus of keyboard taps and mouse clicks answered.

"Bloody hell!"

"Bugger!"

"This is crap…"

"F"ing virus must have downed the system," a nurse in red scrubs with short blond hair complained.

"How are we supposed to do our job with such rubbish," another nurse in grey whined. "Stupid budget cuts! Scrimping on the computer systems and look what we get… crap… absolute useless electronics…."

No one noticed the lone figure in the wheelchair, eyelids drawn down over a languid face, apparently nearly asleep. A devious smile flitted momentarily across the man's face and then just as quickly disappeared. A few moments of respite from the ennui. Sherlock counted the minutes.

A call down to tech support. A jeans and tee clad youth that looked hardly a day over thirteen appeared on the scene eleven minutes and eight seconds later. He bent over the shoulder of the charge nurse and manoeuvred the plastic mouse automatically in his right palm. His quick eyes shifted across the screen and he clicked the spacebar. Suddenly he smiled.

Not too bad for a tech, Sherlock mused. "Two minutes and forty-nine seconds once he actually arrived on the scene."

The tech, Ryan, grinned. "Someone has been playing with your computers. One of the oldest tricks in the book." He made a few more clicks on the computers as he whistled and quickly brought all the static computer monitors to life again. "Simple screen shot of the login-in screen. Click to log in and viola! no can do!" His tone was a bit too enthusiastic for some of the older nurses who grumbled under their breath.

"Neat little trick. Takes just moments and entirely frustrating if you're not expecting it." He finished closing out the static picture on all the monitors. "All fixed. Now the only question is, who. Who set you up?" His boyish eyes twinkled and he trotted back to the elevator.

The charge nurse looked over at her colleagues and shrugged. "I have no idea."

Sherlock shuttled his way back to his room. By the time, Mark, his nurse for the night came to check on him, he was settled in his bed, apparently asleep. Time to plan his next escape from boredom. "Operation Ennui," he termed it.

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**Reviews and suggestions always brighten my day and help reduce the endless ennui!**


	4. Ch 4: Operation Ennui Begins

A/N: All former disclaimers still apply. As much as I didn't plan on continuing this story... somehow the ennui demands more mischief... or is that my alter-ego?! Don't know... thank you to all those who've read, reviewed, and favourited!

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Chapter 4: Operation Ennui Begins

Dr Hoffman poked his head into Sherlock's room. "Good morning," he looked down at his patient's health statistics for the day and gave the man in question a reassuring nod when their gaze met.

"Morning," Sherlock mumbled, "just morning until after tea."

"I see," the doctor raised an eyebrow. "One of those."

"And you're one of _those_," the detective retorted.

"No, just happened to have had my coffee already this morning," Dr Hoffman conceded. After a brief exam of Sherlock, he straightened up. "Things are looking positive. We're going to transfer you to a step-down unit today."

"I'll lose these wires then?" Sherlock indicated the electrodes plastered across his chest that itched at the most inopportune moments. The thrill of bringing a flustered nurse to check on him every time he experimented with replicating various cardiac arrhythmias had worn thin. They always came in less than 60 seconds but the frowns of disapproval were getting more tight-lipped and grim.

"No, you'll still be wired but you'll be able to move around without all the other IV drips impeding your flow. Physiotherapy will come and do their assessment today too."

Dr Hoffman smiled. "You've created a rather 'interesting' reputation among the staff here." He winked. "I'm sure the nurses in step-down will be delighted. Word of caution to you though, Mr Holmes – nurses can be your best friend... or you worst enemy."

Sherlock contemplated the doctor's parting words of wisdom with his usual sangfroid. His keen intellect took in all the details of the hospital floor-plan when he was later shuttled to another wing that day.

~221b~

His new bed was definitely a step-down in every definition of the word. On the bright side, there was more privacy. The nurses were busier and didn't have time to notice if he chose to wander. He spent the day testing their limits. His physiotherapy session merely confirmed the deficiencies in his strength that he'd deduced earlier.

"Hi, my names Rick…"

"So I see," Sherlock responded from his bed. "And, let me guess, you're from the therapy department and want to do a survey of what I can and cannot do, practically speaking."

Rick tipped his head in assent. "If that's ok with you Mr Holmes? Are you ready?"

"As long as you can make it not boring."

The physiotherapist brought out his clipboard of forms and began. After the fourth instruction, Sherlock balked. "This is tedious, boring, and not helpful. How do you stand your job? I don't need to go through this monotony. Perfectly useless!" He sat down on the edge of the bed, scowled, and folded his arms in protest. If it hadn't been for his hospital pyjamas, he might have appeared more intimidating.

"It's normal hospital protocol, Mr Holmes."

"Well, I don't do 'normal' and protocol has never been my strong point."

"Let's try one more time, shall we?" Rick encouraged his stubborn patient in as professional a manner as he could muster.

"No."

"If we don't finish the assessment, I won't be able to make my report. It could delay your hospital discharge date," Rick reasoned.

Sherlock looked back at Rick defiantly. He was strangely offended by the whole fiasco. "I can tell you what to put in your report. I'm not an idiot. I know which bits of me need re-strengthening without going through the whole 'protocol'!"

Rick sighed but at last shrugged, "Fine, what do you think you should work on? I'm listening."

Sherlock outlined his personal survey of both upper and lower body motor skills. When he finished, Rick looked almost impressed. "What you say is reasonable. Let me conduct two more endurance tests and then, if that checks out, I'll go with your insights and write up a plan of action? Deal?"

Sherlock grimaced but complied. "Stupid protocol," he grumbled as he panted up and down the hospital corridors.

"Ok then. Finished." Rick grinned. "I'll get my report written up today. Therapy will start tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He spent several minutes catching his breath from the exertions. Stupid injuries. He hated having his brain's support system in such a vulnerable, weakened state. "Rick," he took in a slow deep breath, "you don' t have anything to be worried about. Go ahead and ask her. She'll say yes."

"You think so?" Rick asked, anxiously.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and leaned back and then winced. Ow! He'd momentarily forgotten that such a position still tore at the stitches. A shearing knife seemed to shred his insides all over again. The sweat beaded up on his forehead and he blanched a dusky grey momentarily.

Rick reached out, alarmed. "Take it easy, Mr Holmes!"

"I'm fine," Sherlock brushed aside the assistance and shifted his weight more gingerly into the bed.

"Mr Holmes, how did you know about my girlfriend? I never said anything."

"Results without explanations are more impressive. I'll tell you tomorrow." Sherlock answered faintly. He eased himself into a supine position on his hospital bed and tried to relax every bone and fibre in his body in an attempt to quell the sharp pains.

Rick left with a baffled expression plastered all over his face.

Gradually the throbbing subsided and Sherlock breathed freely again. He wished he still had his morphine pump but Dr Hoffman had the brilliant idea of weaning him to oral painkillers today in accordance with his wishes for increased mobility. On second thought, perhaps that hadn't been the most inspired of ideas.

Over supper that evening, he created furrows in his mince beef and cultivated broccoli orchards, giving everything a dusting of salt frost in the end.


	5. Ch 5: An Evening Experiment

**A/N: Normal disclaimers apply. Do not try this at home. Silliness abounds. All reviews and feedback are seriously appreciated! Thank you to those who have left a line or two. A de thank yu plenty!**

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Pain and fatigue passed with time and tablets. Sherlock was definitely getting stronger. As his strength returned, his boredom increased exponentially. He determined to create a bit of "evening entertainment" to test the humour of the night staff.

The gifted observationist pictured the layout of the hospital. Utilising some creative ingenuity, he remotely accessed to the local intercom system. He did not hijack the entire switchboard, that would have required more planning and assistance than he could manage in a day. One wing was sufficient to conduct his research regarding night-shift humour, though perhaps his was more of an experiment into the limits of night nursing tolerance toward a devious prankster? Sherlock would have to ponder that one some more.

Utilising one of his many professional accents, he turned on the intercom. "Paging Dr Bloodgood to the haematology department. Dr Bloodgood to haematology." He noticed a few orderlies do a double take as they strolled past his door.

Sherlock smiled to himself and looked at his list. He wondered how long it would take for staff to catch on. He took a breath and assumed a more Indian accent, "Paging Dr Moorkath. Moorkath to the cardiology department." No one in the nursing station seemed to pay much attention to the standard overhead alerts. Perhaps there really is a Dr Moorkath who does cardiac caths," Sherlock considered this possibility.

He continued. "Dr Rash. Paging Dr Rachel Rash to dermatology." This time a few heads turned. It wasn't everyday that a dermatology specialist was paged for an emergency.

He decided to try something a bit more sinister. Putting on his best monster voice, he spoke into the microphone, " Dr Frankenstein needed in pathology. Dr Frankenstein, please report to the pathology lab."

Immediately a rustle of papers and head-turning greeted Sherlock's ears. He smiled and shuffled out to a wheelchair in the hallway. Even some of the other patients were starting to notice. They seemed to be waiting for the next announcement, the next act in this comedic charade. Sherlock didn't want to disappoint. "Dr Ah Choo. Please call the operator. Dr Achoo, please call the operator." Admittedly Sherlock's Mandarin accent wasn't as good as he'd have liked.

The patients in the halls all let out a wave of chuckles. They looked at each other and exchanged mutual smiles of amusement at whoever was pranking the intercom system. One elderly male with grizzled white stubble turned to his roommate. "My urologist used to be a Dr Hugh G Wrection." He winked.

The man on the opposite bed grinned. "Wonder if he lived up to his name?"

~221b~

It was nearing the end of visiting hours when Mycroft dropped by for a brief update. "Brother dear, how are you?" he smiled benevolently down at his younger sibling.

"Just fine. You should know." Sherlock stared with a touch of defiance back at his older brother.

"Enjoying the food?" Mycroft made a grimace as he noted the menu for the day.

"Simply divine," the younger man answered with dripping sarcasm. "Care for a biscuit?" He indicated a small plate on his bedside stand. "About the only thing edible around here."

Mycroft acquiesced and took a cream-filled snack. His face abruptly contorted into a very unprofessional expression, turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink. Biscuit crumbs went flying across the room. "What the…?!" Mycroft spluttered, took his handkerchief and tried to wipe some composure back into his face.

Sherlock watched the entire dramatic episode with quiet satisfaction. "Not a fan of toothpaste, brother dear?" he asked when the British agent was breathing normally again.

Mycroft glared.

Sherlock shrugged, unrepentant. "There's water over by the sink." He made no effort to get up.

Still bearing the deportment of an injured hero, Mycroft stalked over to the sink, filled a glass with water, and took a prolonged swig, flushing the after effects of toothpaste and pastry flour down. Setting the cup back down, he gave the detective a final fixed glare.

The mildly less-bored detective in the bed returned his gaze serenely. "Good night, Mycroft. I imagine it's your bedtime. As for me, I suspect the nurse will be turning up with my nightly enema any moment. Would you like to watch?" He quirked his eyebrows upward with mocking invitation.

Mycroft licked his lips and frowned. He pulled out his handkerchief and studied it momentarily then glanced back over at his brother. "You… " he frowned accusingly through numb lips that refused to curl into an appropriate sneer.

"I what?" asked the younger brother benignly. "I bested you - again?"

Mycroft decided it was time to leave before he succumbed to any further practical jokes on the part his deranged idiot brother.

"Anbesol. It was Anbesol (benzocaine)." Sherlock called after his trailing figure.

~221b~

With Mycroft off the premises, Sherlock returned to his enterprising research. "Dr Stream needed in the urology department. Dr Stream, please contact urology immediately." Sherlock's audience in the halls cheered the return of their evening entertainment. Several ripples of laughter echoed from the rooms as well. The nurses at the station paused momentarily.

Fran, one of the phlebotomists turned to her co-worker and remarked, "When I was working in the theatre, used to know a Dr Ether. She was an anaesthesiologist."

Her co-worker smiled. I used to work at a surgery where we had a Dr Charles Paine." She grinned. "Rather an unfortunate name for a doctor." Fran laughed. "That's almost as good as Dr Klutz who used to work shifts in the A&E!"

Sherlock's experiment was turning out rather interesting. _Perhaps night-duty attracts workers with more lenient attitudes?_ The convalescing consultant considered the option.

"Dr Croke, please report to the morgue. Dr Croke to the morgue." Sherlock randomly wondered if Molly would approve. He certainly didn't feel guilty though.

A chronic diabetic patient recovering after a recent amputation for a non-healing leg ulcer turned to a fellow-patient on his right, also in a wheelchair. "The doc who did this," he pointed to his missing leg, " was Dr Kendall. I read one time that there used to be an orthopaedic specialist by the name of Dr John Stump though."

His neighbour laughed and her eyes twinkled at the humour.

Sherlock was inspired. His night research was not turning out as expected and that was a good thing, surprisingly. He grinned. "Dr Butts, please return to the GI lab."

Adam, one of the newer nursing assistants, turned to his supervisor and jerked a thumb toward the ceiling speakers. "Where's this prankster getting all those names? He's pretty good."

His supervisor shrugged. "I don't know. There are some rather ironic names in real life though. I knew a Dr. Joseph Loony once."

"Let me guess… a psychiatrist, worked with the nut jobs," Adam replied.

"Precisely!" His supervisor gave Adam an approving nod. "You catch on quick."

Sherlock decided to let things rest a bit. It was time for a proper wash. He took his time getting into the walk-in shower and, with a resigned frown at his frailty, sat down on the plastic chair provided. He let the droplets cascade over his body rhythmically. It was the first real shower he'd had in a while. He felt the tension in his muscles begin to melt away under the steady onslaught of warmth. Soapsuds collided against each other, tumbling over his soaked mop of dark curls, down his back and finally swirling away at his very un-hobbit-like feet. The blue, nylon sutures poked their sharp, stubby tails prominently out of his left side, contrasting against the soft flesh. He'd have an impressive scar once things were healed up.

He let his fingers explore his damaged exterior for the first time since… since when it happened. _Strange. Weird_. It almost didn't feel possible that this was his own body. He felt oddly disconnected from the injuries he knew lay beneath the blue markers delineating recent history.

A wave of nausea gripped his stomach unexpectedly. He braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing – ignoring the overwhelming influx of emotions. His brain wasn't ready to process the flood. As his breathing slowed and the lulling rhythm of the water blanketing his form calmed his sudden anxieties, he gradually became conscious of a dull ache in his heart. Vaguely, he also became aware of an ethereal shifting within his mind palace. Perhaps one day he'd understand what it all meant. For now, he simply let the precipitation dilute the pain while he drowned out the realities of his hurt. He closed his eyes against… well, er… against everything.

A loud rapping on the door frame brought him back to earth. "Mr Holmes, are you ok?" The new night-shift nurse, Ashley, called his name.

"Fine," Sherlock opened his eyes and reached to turn off the tap. "I'll be out in a minute."

Satisfied, Ashley left him to towel off and finish his nightly rituals. Brushing reveries and sentiment aside, her patient shuffled back to his bed and looked at the time. Not quite ten o'clock. He'd risk another intercom announcement.

He thought a moment. "Dr Samatha Grossberger, please come to the labour and delivery unit. Dr Grossberger, report to labour and delivery."

One of the female orderlies, obviously pregnant, smiled, albeit with some consternation. The fathers and grandfathers on the ward chuckled and exchanged knowing glances.

Sherlock had plenty of other ideas for his comedic parade of names. In his best American accent he broadcast, "Paging a Dr Heine or a Dr Dickoff. Drs Heine or Dickoff, please call the operator." A lopsided smile crossed his face.

Ashley poked her nose into his room again. "Mr Holmes, I think it's time to sleep now." She stepped into the room and smiled. "We all appreciate your contribution to the humour of the evening. I think it's time that you and the rest of the patients get some sleep though."

"How'd you guess?" Sherlock shifted under the white sheets with a pretend pout.

"Oh, Mr Holmes," Ashley giggled. "We're not as stupid as you might imagine. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who's hacked into the intercom system when a new patient on the hospital wing is called Sherlock Holmes."

The man in question faked a shocked grin.

Nurse Ashley checked her patient's vital signs and made sure he was comfortable, call button within easy reach. "Good night, Mr Holmes." She smiled back at him and slipped out of the room.

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**A/N: Our bored, mischievous detective is nearing the end of his hospital stay. A lucky deal for both parties involved as I suspect his care staff are nearing the end of their patience too. I plan one final chapter.**


	6. Ch 6: Torture and Murder

**Chapter 6: Torture and Murder**

**Disclaimer: Normal disclaimers apply. Medical personnel are advised to put aside their professional acumen. Just fluff and filler. No actual characters were harmed in the writing of this chapter.**

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"I'm not a morning person," Sherlock silently cursed the far-too-cheery Ryan, his physiotherapist.

"Oh, it's long past morning," Ryan explained with a wink. "Way past the time when us poor _ordinary_ folk must be out and about, torturing the high and mighty for a few coins to feed our families and provide a roof over our heads."

"Very funny," the bleary-eyed detective replied dryly. "Your humour is overwhelming me."

"I could come at eight o'clock in the morning instead of nine," Ryan offered. He prodded Sherlock toward the next contraption that was supposed to strengthen his weakened muscles. "Ten sets. Try to hold them for fifteen seconds each."

Sherlock fought back the urge to throw the nearest barbell at the man and instead clenched his teeth and attempted to get through these apparently crucial and cruel persecutions as quickly as possible. "Stupid idiots! Who thought up these exercises anyway?"

"Why," Ryan looked down at his clipboard, " I believe you were the one who made the initial suggestions." He looked back up with a grin. "Still agree with your opinion or are you wanting to retract your statements?"

"Just get on with it," Sherlock huffed between laboured breaths. He was sure human bodies were not meant to be abused in this manner. It was fine if there was adrenaline pumping through his veins and endorphins bursting in his neurons. That was compensation for physical exertion. The danger. The thrill. The excitement of the chase. He didn't feel the pain when his mind was charged with the anticipation of solving the next case.

But this? This was dull and tedious work. He concentrated on ways to alleviate such monotony.

~221b~

While Sherlock recovered from his early morning afflictions, he made some phone calls. Friends who owed him a favour. "It's just glue! All I want is one tiny tube of the stuff… no, I'm not going to sniff it!" Sherlock huffed exasperated. "I promise."

"No, I don't want another 'Hello Kitty'," Sherlock bit his tongue and tried to pare down the impatience threatening to overflow. "I just want a little something to help me celebrate the Chinese New Year…. Yes, I know I'm not Chinese… Can you just supply a couple then?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. Thankfully the caller on the other end of the phone couldn't see him. "…because you have the best in town… please?" Flattery and begging were his last resort but one that was mercifully rewarded with an affirmative action.

"You've had an interesting number of visitors today," one of the nurse aids commented to Sherlock.

"Keeps the ennui away," he mumbled evasively.

"Or something," the aid added sceptically.

~221b~

John came to visit later in the day. He spent a bit more time with his friend than the previous allotment of visitors.

"Heard about your evening announcements last night," John stated blandly.

"Oh?" Sherlock replied noncommittal though he sneaked a sidelong glance, curious to judge John's reaction.

"Actually, I think most were rather amused," John smiled. "There are some strange names out in the real world." He shook his head at some of his own memories. "Course," he added hastily, "I wouldn't do it again. People's patience only extends so far, even if they are humoured."

"No worries, John. A repeat performance would be dull anyway."

"Um… Sherlock," John's voice filled with suspicion. "Don't think I'm that stupid." He glanced knowingly at his friend lying placid in bed, wrapped up like a mummy in white sheets. "Be careful. I highly caution you against pissing off anyone involved in your care, whether that's your nurse, the cleaning lady, or the physician who writes the orders. An irritated phlebotomist might have a bit more difficulty finding a suitable vein."

Sherlock grimaced and looked down at a couple prominent purplish splotches that were beginning to turn greenish-yellow on his arms.

"Precisely, your fans would be terribly disappointed to see such porcelain perfection marred by further venous punctures."

"Might have already pissed off the higher powers that be," Sherlock admitted. "Not venipunctures - medieval torture sessions."

"Oh?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Complex contraptions. Agonising repetitions. Merciless taskmasters. I'm sure they're planning to murder me next."

"I take it you're referring to physiotherapy then." John smirked knowingly. "No sympathy there, mate. I've had my fair share too, you know."

"Not like this John. I'm sure it couldn't have been this bad." Sherlock looked up at John with his best impression of the wounded hero.

"You'll survive," John added, unhelpfully.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't suppose I could get you to bring me my chemistry things – not all of them – just the essentials?"

"Nope," John shook his head, amused.

"A body, dead of course?"

"Definitely not!"

"A dummy body then?"

"Um… what would you do with a fake body? I can't think of anything good."

"Nothing. Just asking." Sherlock feigned innocence. "Could be interesting to see what people would do if they think someone just fell off the hospital roof…"

"Not going there, Sherlock." John answered a bit too testily for Sherlock's comfort.

He changed topics. "Well, how about you slip a few ping pong balls in Mycroft's petrol tank next time he hijacks you? We could both enjoy that one."

"Um…probably going to pass on that one too, Sherlock." John's eyes twinkled again though as he rose to leave. "Just out of curiosity, what would happen?" he waited for the somewhat pouting sheet-mummy to enlighten him.

"Oh, nothing much. Just a theory anyway until I actually test it out." Sherlock replied with a dismissive tone.

"No, really, Sherlock. I want to know what you _think_ would happen then."

"Well, in theory," Sherlock paused dramatically, "the plastic balls would eventually be sucked against the fuel intake valve, cutting off petrol to the engine, causing it to splutter and stop. At this point, the driver gets out, checks engine, sees nothing is amiss, and amazingly the vehicle restarts without a glitch – until a few more miles down the road when the floating plastic is again sucked down against the valve."

John smiled. "I get the picture. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. And difficult to figure out why. Rather clever and rather extremely frustrating. Your evil genius is starting to erupt, Sherlock."

"I never said I was an angel," the dark-haired genius replied. "Besides, it's only theoretical until tested _in vivo." _

"I think I'd rather not test such a theory on the British Government," John wisely decided.

"Well, good bye for now, Sherlock. At the rate you're going, I doubt you'll be hospitalised much longer. Try to hold off on your most diabolical evil schemes until after discharge if you can."

The white sheet-mummy smirked. "If I don't get too bored."

"Sherlock, you're an idiot!" John shook his head with a bemused smile.

* * *

**A/N: Ok. I admit. It's taking longer for me to add in all my evil plans…. Humour me with a few more chapters as I attempt to thoroughly annoy the entire hospital workforce. **


	7. Ch 7: A Bored Idiot

**A/N: Many thanks to all those who've read and reviewed. Always brighten my days. Still dealing with the ennui of illness on this end. Poor Sherlock... now my favourite enigmatic detective will have to suffer a bit longer in the hospital. **

**Disclaimers: All previous ones still apply**

* * *

**Chapter 7: A Bored Idiot**

The bored idiot smiled to himself under the hospital sheets. _Never wise to leave an evil genius to his own devices_, he thought to himself. _Time for phase 2 of Operation Ennui_.

He stretched his body and rolled over reaching for a few items strategically placed under his bed. "Oh, bloody hell!" he almost yelped out loud. He'd forgotten about his earlier workout with Ryan. His muscles hadn't though. He made a mental note to look up voodoo dolls and hexes later.

He fished round and found the SuperGlue he'd procured earlier. Now what? He thought for a few moments. Perfect! Mycroft would be aghast if he knew. He finished the set up.

With a bit of ingenuity and creative posturing, he managed to shed his sheet and dress himself in something less conspicuous. Carefully, he entered the hospital corridor and surveyed the activity. It wasn't difficult to position the small rubber black and white snake poking its snout and beady eyes out from behind the nurse's desktop.

His efforts were not long in their reward either. From the corner mirror in the opposite hall, he watched Jenny's eyes grow wide with fright as she hastily stood up and let out a terrified scream. "Snake!" was all she could manage to gasp out as the papers in her hands went flying like autumn leaves round the work station.

In all the commotion that subsequently ensued, no one noticed the patient standing in the opposite corridor, quietly absorbing the drama.

Amidst the clamour of rolling chairs, shifting papers, falling clipboards, and shuffling feet angling to see what all the noise was about, the voice of a balding elderly patient was heard. "Calm down, people!" He trundled over in his roller-walker. "I've seen more than a few snakes working on the farm. Just let me through will you? I can help."

In what was most likely the crowning glory of his hospital stay, the tide of people parted, giving Mr Isaacs access to the viper-infected computer station. He rested his arms on his walker and leaned in for a closer examination while the room held a collective breath. Suddenly, he let out a low rumble. He smiled. "You can all start breathing again." He stood up and waved to everyone to relax. "Your deadly snake is just a common rubber snake, although I do admit it is an excellent rendition of the poisonous adder with its dark zigzag stripe running down its back."

"Are you sure?" Someone in the audience squeaked hesitantly.

"Oh definitely, madam!" Isaacs grinned and picked up the rubber adder by its tail, jiggling it up high on display for everyone to see.

A rather tough-looking matriarchal nurse involuntarily cringed. Somewhere a few more 'eeks' and 'eewws' echoed from the crowd. Gradually folks calmed down and business returned to usual.

"What should I do with it?" Mr Isaacs turned to the nurse closest to him.

"Keep it," he shrugged. "I'm sure no one else wants it."

"Thanks," the elderly man happily complied. "It really is an fine model of the common viper, only venomous snake in Britain, you know. Of course, no one has actually died from a poisoned snake bite in over 20 years…." He continued his monologue on snakes though no one listening anymore. He shrugged. "The grandkids will like it."

Sherlock decided now was a good time to return to his bed and catch up on some of the inane news in the tabloids collecting in a pile near his bed. He was sincerely thankful that nurse Jenny was working day shift and soon a new night-shift nurse would take over.

~221b~

"Good evening, Mr Holmes, I'm Jeremy, one of the nurse aids today. I just came to check your vital signs before the next shift begins."

Sherlock surveyed the young man. _New on the job. Probably here just a week. Not in any steady relationship_. "From South Africa, I see." Sherlock held out his arm for the obligatory blood pressure cuff.

"Yes, actually," Jeremy appeared momentarily confused. "But how did you know? My parents are quite British and I've been in the UK for some time now."

"BCG scar. Almost British accent. Way you write your measurements. I could go on…"

"I think I get your gist, Mr Holmes," Jeremy paused the detective in his dialogue with the addition of a thermometer to his mouth. "Keep it closed until it beeps," he admonished.

At risk of having to repeat the whole process again, Sherlock complied.

"No fever. Blood pressure perfect. I'll report these to nurse Jenny and the incoming night nurse. I believe her name is Ashley."

"We've met," Sherlock affirmed.

Jeremy patted his pockets, searching for his pen. "Sorry, Mr Holmes, I seem to have misplaced my pen again."

Sherlock looked round the room with Jeremy. "Is that your pen, under the desk?" he pointed to a particularly polished professional pen on the floor.

"Not mine, but perhaps I can borrow it until I find mine?"

"Go ahead, it's not mine either," Sherlock flopped back on his pillow. Having one's personal vital signs charted all the time was getting to be rather invasive.

"Huh?" Jeremy bent over and reached awkwardly under the desk to retrieve the writing utensil. "It's stuck."

"Stuck on what?"

"I don't know but I can't pry it loose." He rose, frustrated. "It's just not my day, I guess. Excuse me for a moment. I'll be right back with another pen."

"Wait!" the detective sat up and looked over at Jeremy intently. "I think you still have your pen in your pocket."

"I checked already."

"Oh well, then." Sherlock rolled over and scrambled round in his bedside cupboard. "I think I have a pen in here. You can have it."

Jeremy came over. "Thanks. Appreciate it." He reached out for the pen Sherlock handed him. "Pens, always growing wings and flying away, you know what I mean."

"Sure."

Jeremy scribbled some notes on his clipboard and prepared to leave. "Still think you should double-check your right side pocket," Sherlock called back as the aid reached the door.

"Ok, Mr Holmes. Good night."

Two seconds later…

"How the h…? My pen!"

Sherlock slid under the sheets until the amused smugness wore off his face.

Later that evening, the cleaning lady had a few choice words for whatever idiot glued a perfectly good pen to the floor!

Undeterred and unrepentant, the bored detective tore his handkerchief at just the precise moment madam cleaning lady bent over to scrape off the offending pen.

She left in a hurried, embarrassed huff. Her temper did not improve when she inspected the seams of her uniform and discovered they had not ripped at inappropriate places. Somehow she never made it back to Sherlock's room to finish cleaning. And Mycroft's new pen that Sherlock had promptly filched yesterday never did work properly after all the superglue had sealed its innards.

* * *

**A/N: If you're still reading along, I have a few more ideas for Sherlock's Operation Ennui. It alleviates my boredom at least. If it helps yours, all the better!**


	8. Ch 8: An Unanticipated Side Effect

**A/N: Once again a huge thank you to all those who've read, reviewed, and brainstormed with me over future ideas. Sherlock's latest food sculpture in this chapter is dedicated to ****Lucy36.**** For some excellent humorous reads, check out her profile. **

**Disclaimers: The Usual + A touch of brokenness at the end. Sorry guys! Feel free to skip - it's just, well, even the best and the brightest consulting detectives - under the laughter can still get lonely. Promise I'll make up for it in the next chapter.**

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**Chapter 8: An Unanticipated Side Effect **

The deviant detective was becoming more deviant as his health returned. His penchant for staying up at all hours of the night had returned. Unlike his flat in 221B Baker Street, there was still plenty of hustle and bustle even at two o'clock in the morning yet he moaned the stupid regulation against violins in patient rooms. "But nurse," he'd argued strongly, "there are numerous evidence-based studies validating the health benefits of music therapy. I need my violin!"

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Mr Holmes, in spite of your objections. Hospital policy specifically forbids such."

Sherlock crossed his arms and frowned.

"Sorry," nurse Ashley shrugged. "You could bring it up with the hospital board of directors if you'd like?"

"Not going to do me any good right now though," the irritated patient muttered glumly.

"Very observant of you," Ashley commented with a sidelong glance at the man. "Why not try a quieter distraction like watching telly or listening to violin music with your earphones?"

Sherlock only frowned deeper. Ashley was far too sensible in such matters. "Hurrumph!" he turned over on his side and pulled the sheets over his disenfranchised mop of dark curls.

~221b~

In the name of scientific deduction, Sherlock woke up extra early, far before his 9 o'clock physiotherapy session, to prep for Operation Ennui, part III.

He strolled out into the hospital corridor down to the corner where the public toilets were situated. It took only a few seconds for him to switch the signs. It was a bit dull and petty but, he reassured himself, it was only part of the plan. Visiting hours would soon be upon them. Based on yesterday's observations, Sherlock calculated there should be at least two or three comical relief escapades.

On his way back from his morning stroll, he noted the staff break lounge. His keen eyes narrowed for the briefest of seconds. "Why do hospitals even bother with lock-codes on their doors," he scoffed at the absurdly simple solution to the combination code. With so many employees coming and going, it was simple to see which numbers were worn and used most often. And, statistically speaking, the code would begin with either a '1' or a '5'. Businesses were so predictable.

He was tempted to make an entrance right then but stopped just in time. Flimsy white and blue cotton hospital gown with string ties in the back, strategically positioned to expose one's hinder regions, was probably not the best cover garb.

He remembered that time at Buckingham Palace and heard John's voice echoing, "…you wearing any pants?" An involuntary chuckle rumbled in his chest. John was missing out. He circumvented round the busy staff rushing about trying to get charting done, medications dispensed, and food trays sorted. Pale gangly legs jutting out from beneath fluttering tails of hospital gown strode purposefully back to his room.

Careful to avoid pulling at the stitches or bumping the IV port on his left hand, the scantily clad detective climbed back into his hospital bed. Breakfast time. How predictable. How tiresome!

He poked around in the gluey grey porridge. It was lumpy and thick. His stomach twisted into a definite 'no'. As he picked at his meal, he thought about how his mum used to cajole him into eating. "Eat your vegetables, Sherlock, there are plenty of starving children in Africa would be grateful for every single one of your lima beans…" She'd waggle a finger and try to make him feel guilty.

Mum should have known. Ridiculous! "Fine," he'd retorted to his mum, "send it all to Africa. I don't want it!"

She'd glared at him.

"I'll get a box," he'd helpfully suggested over disgusting looking corned beef.

His mum sighed. "Sherlock!"

He remained at the table long after everyone had left until he'd finished enough of the ghastly food to suite his mum. She could be stubborn when provoked, apparently.

Shaking his head, Sherlock grinned. Mum would be horrified. He deposited the lump of cold porridge onto his plate and spread it out, flattening and carving with his butter knife. Taking his salt packet and creamer, he sprinkled them over his vast and intricately creviced salt flats reminiscent of those in the Southwest of America. The flats stretched endlessly from edge to edge of his platter. The morning light rays through his window refracted against the salt like diamond crystals. He eyed his sculpture critically, cocking his head to one side. With a burst of genius, he added the dried currents as pebbles along the borders. Satisfied, he downed his orange juice and flopped back against his pillow.

More people were milling about in the hospital halls. From the distance he suddenly heard an embarrassed, "Oh!" followed by the rapid slamming of a door. He slipped out of bed and wrapped a second hospital gown over the first in preparation for his medieval torture session with Ryan. He decided to wait outside in one of the chairs in the corridor.

He wasn't disappointed either. Several more awkward gasps enlivened his morning. Blushing visitors and patients. Sherlock had underestimated the number of comedic episodes. In all, there were six. The last one was a pretty, petite brunette coming to see her grandmother in the hospital. Single and entirely too caught up in her thesis project, judging by the bundle of books and papers in her overfilled bag, she opened the door for 'ladies'.

"Oh gosh! I'm so…so…sorry," she stammered, blushing crimson and dropping her textbooks all over the floor, papers shimmying left and right. Zipping his trousers hastily, the athletic blond male washed his hands and graciously bent down to help the distraught brunette collect her things.

Looking up at the misplaced labels, he consoled, "Never mind, it was a foolish prank. It wasn't your fault. So sorry to have upset you."

The young woman pushed a strand of brown hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. She looked back at the kind gentleman helping her. "Thank you." She smiled.

He smiled in return. "What are you studying?"

"I'm writing a thesis on life, the universe, and everything in it, how the number forty-two answers life's most difficult questions." She readjusted her glasses.

"Sounds interesting. I'm taking a sociology class. I wonder if perhaps we could meet over coffee? I'm interested in hearing more about your findings."

The sharp-eyed detective hadn't anticipated this unforeseen side effect. Interesting. He turned his face away to hide the smug look as he contemplated the couple's future. What would they say when their friends asked how they'd met?

Promptly at nine, Ryan arrived to escort Sherlock to his physiotherapy session. "I see you've had your coffee today." He grinned at Sherlock. "A bit more awake today."

Sherlock sighed, resigned to his fate. Fun over.

~221b~

A weary and sore detective returned to his hospital room an hour later. Physiotherapy was worse than anticipated. His muscles, sore and stiff from the previous session, protested with bitter vehemence against the onslaught. It took every ounce of reserves to keep from shouting out in pain a few times during the worst of the drills.

He was discouraged. Weren't things supposed to be getting easier? Instead his body felt like he'd been dipped in molten lava. His muscles burned like fire and his core ached with a painful weight that dragged his spirits into darkened dusty recesses of his mind attic that were best avoided. The nylon sutures in his side itched on the outside and felt like jagged fish barbs stabbing on the inside. Highly uncomfortable!

He looked at the clock. Just past ten o'clock. Another hour until his next dose of painkillers. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to retreat into more pleasant rooms in his mind palace.

~221b~

"Sherlock, are you ok?" the frightened faces of his classmates hovered over his prostrate form as he attempted to swim out of the blurry murkiness that pulled him under when the ball's trajectory smashed into his head. His small hand reached tentatively to examine the swelling rapidly forming on his right temple…

Sherlock quickly closed the door on _that_ room.

"It was an accident," his mum soothed her distraught youngest in her arms. "We're all sorry Redbeard is gone." The tears continued to fall….

Another hasty retreat.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft and Sherlock were alone in the morgue, the smoke swirled singularly upward, disappearing into nothing like so many promises humans make. "…not an advantage." The words reverberated through the younger brother's mind as he tried to shut them out…

Sherlock raced away passing door after door of memories. Sad memories. Memories filled with pain, loss, and loneliness. He kept on searching. Somewhere there must be a room with happiness. The desperate man flew along the echoing palatial corridors. "John!" anguished desperation wrenched the words from his mouth.

A door opened ahead. He paused. Inside was an empty house with a dead body. The body of a woman dressed in pink. A blond ex-army man was bent over the body. "What am I doing here?" He turned to Sherlock who joined him over the body.

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper." He looked over the sturdy form of the familiar man and smiled as he watched him examine the still form of the victim. "John Hamish Watson," he whispered to himself. A warm glow expelled the cold grip of fear and dissolved the sharp arrows of loneliness threatening to overwhelm.

Eyes still closed, the exhausted patient in the hospital bed relaxed at last. He dreamt of adventure and danger and 221B and tea.

* * *

**A/N: I believe our sick detective is beginning to get a bit homesick. Hospital pranks can only last so long, after all. It's time to wrap up Operation Ennui and work on getting Sherlock back to 221B where Mrs Hudson can continue his care. Just a few loose ends with Chinese New Year, employee lounges, and... more laughter to come - promise!**


	9. Ch 9: Anderson Breaks the Monotony

**A/N: For those of you who are still with me and weren't turned off by the last chapter - a big thank you! Now onward to some more lighthearted fun. **

**Disclaimer: The usual. And... well, it's been a long day... my frontal lobe might not be filtering things quite as well... be forewarned!**

* * *

**Chapter 9: Anderson Breaks the Monotony**

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Instantly, he was awake. Someone was staring at him.

"Anderson!" Sherlock was the first to speak. "What the hell are you doing standing there?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" the rumpled pathologist whined.

"Besides making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straighter than an old man's **** on Viagra with a couple of 20 year old blonds in a *** – " Sherlock glared, "you look like a bloody stalker trying to give his next victim a heart attack."

Anderson frowned and his upper lip twitched threatening to curl up into a sneer. At the last second he composed himself though. He shrugged and seated himself in the visitor chair, crossing his right leg over his left, entirely too much at home in Sherlock's hospital room from the detective's perspective.

"So, Sherlock, how _are_ you doing?" He smiled; an expression that appeared forced and foreign to his scruffy features.

"Clearly, you can see that I'm still alive, and, I'm fine, if you must know." The curls on the dark haired man ticked ominously.

"I see," Anderson looked around the room. "If you play your cards right, you might be able to nurse the sympathy card for quite a few more days. It's not such a bad set up you have here. I could get used to all the pampering that one gets while in the hospital. You lucky bastard! Might want to try it out myself."

"I wish you would," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"Of course, I suppose you don't mind all the publicity and the well wishes either."

Sherlock turned his head away to look out the window.

Undeterred, the bearded man continued. "And, I suspect you are rather enjoying all the liberally available drugs – morphine, codeine, Vicodin, Percocet…" he continued his monologue not bothering to note Sherlock's pale eyes becoming increasingly thunderous and dark. "Probably be hell again, getting you weaned off all the narcotics once the prescriptions run out."

He glanced momentarily over at Sherlock with a benevolent grimace. "I'll try to talk to Lestrade, and maybe Mycroft, about it. Perhaps we can arrange for more frequent drug busts on your flat, just a little encouragement to help you stay clean, for your own good, of course."

"No wonder your wife hasn't slept with you in six weeks, your cat ran away, and your goldfish committed suicide," Sherlock moaned.

"How?" Anderson's face scrunched up in a puzzled expression momentarily. "Oh never mind," he waved his hand dismissively. "I see hospitalization hasn't stopped you from playing your little tricks."

With a sigh, Sherlock shifted his head on his pillow. "Don't you think it's a bit stuffy in here? Would you open the window over there and let a bit of this hot air escape?" He looked up expectantly at the self-absorbed pathologist.

"Yes, I suppose," he complied and rose from his chair. "Funny how hospital windows have these safety-catches on them in patient rooms… one can only open the window a few inches..."

The smug look on Anderson's face suddenly disappeared. As he reached for the window sash, his feet landed on a thin drizzle of innocuous looking powder. "Crack! Snap!" it sounded like the rapid-fire from an automatic weapon– sort of.

Anderson's face went ashen, and he lunged for the nearest cover, which happened to be the door to the toilet. Shit! They're shooting at us through the window!" The pathologist cowered behind the door. "Call the police or something, quick, Sherlock!"

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow at the shaken man. "Over what, a little silver fulminate? Please!"

"But…but… "

"I see age has not improved your IQ. Still not figured it out yet?"

"Figured what out?" suspicion crept into his voice.

"No one is shooting at us."

"Then what did I hear?"

"Oh, I suspect you went diving for cover when you stepped on some of the power that leaked out of the fireworks I'm saving for Chinese New Year." Sherlock yawned.

"Fireworks! You can't go shooting off fireworks in a hospital!"

"If you'd been listening, which on second thought is an unlikely possibility, you would have heard that I said 'powder that you set off' – with your own shoes when you exerted pressure on the crystals.

"So, there wasn't any gunfire, just exploding powder on the floor?" Anderson scowled and came out from hiding behind the door.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock replied.

Anderson was silent for a moment as his brain processed all the information. He walked back over to the window and carefully toed a few of the white grains on the floor by the window. "Snap!" He flinched in spite of himself.

He stepped back over to Sherlock's bedside, the full situation finally hitting him. "You set me up, you bloody bastard!"

Sherlock smiled benignly. "Remember, it's highly functioning sociopath, not psychopath."

"Fine thanks I get for doing my good deed of the day and paying you a visit." Anderson huffed.

"Never asked you come," Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, I'm not coming back."

"No need," he muttered blandly.

"Good-bye." Anderson stalked out of the room.

"Is everything ok in there, Mr Holmes?" Rachel, the nurse, poked her nose into Sherlock's room. "I thought I heard a bit of commotion coming from here."

"Everything's just fine – now." Sherlock assured. He settled back into his pillow and began calculating his next "research" project. It was going to take a bit more stealth than previously. _Sociopath with a plan_…. He grinned to himself.

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**A/N: More to come... **


	10. Ch 10: Anderson's Goldfish

**A/N: Dear readers, I was shocked and amused the number of comments regarding the goldfish suicide reference in chapter 9. I have heard your questions, and in a fit of bemused humour, have relayed the back-story behind Anderson's goldfish committing suicide.**

**Disclaimer: The Usual. No goldfish or cats were harmed in the writing of this story.**

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His name was Bob.

Bob was a goldfish. A common garden-variety goldfish of scaly golden-hue and plain fins.

Regrettably, Bob had the misfortune of coming to reside at 1615 Terrance Drive where a funny looking pathologist and his wife lived.

~221b~

It all began several weeks previously. Bob and his fiancée, Betty, were floating along, blowing bubbles together and playfully nibbling at each other's fins.

"I'm such a lucky guy, Betty," he fanned his gills, "who would have guessed that such a plain fish like me could ever end up with someone with such surpassing beauty as yourself."

"Oh, Bob!" Betty giggled and bubbles cascades to the surface of their aquarium.

"You're beautiful. Just look at your high dorsal fin, that wonderful gossamer quadruple caudal tail, not to mention your pearlscales and enchanting potbelly."

If goldfish could blush, Betty would have gone from her pale orange to a russet red right then. "I love you, Bob," she wiggled her tail fins enticingly. "Let's go play in the seaweed where's there a bit more privacy from ol' googly eyes over there."

~221b~

Bob's life was perfect. His aquarium was cleaned daily. Food twice a day. Sure, he had to share the space with other goldfish, but, all in all, he rather enjoyed the opportunity to go out and hang with his mates for a bit of manly pebble tossing. He never paid much attention to the letters on the outside of his aquarium that read "goldfish for sale" (goldfish can't read, after all). Occasionally, a distant acquaintance would mysteriously disappear out of their lives; it seemed to correlate with the annoying intrusions of a large, sweeper-net thing.

"I want to have lots of children, honey," Betty puckered her mouth and smiled at Bob. "Hundreds – a whole school of baby fish fry. Won't that be lovely?"

Bob swooned at the thought. _Hundreds of fish fry? That was a lot of responsibility!_ He smiled mutely at Betty.

~221b~

Then IT happened.

"Mummy, I want that one!" A youngster on the opposite of the glass pointed at an egg-shaped, pearlscaled beauty lazily floating along in the aquarium.

"Bob! Bob! Help!" her cries became strangled in her throat as she gasped to breath, caught in the strange net-thing.

"NOoooooooo! Betty! Come back. Don't leave me!" Bob swam in frantic circles. He jumped as high as his rudder fin could propel him. All to no avail. Betty was gone.

Bob waited and search for her endlessly. "She's not coming back, mate," his friends informed him. "She's gone forever, just like all the other ones."

Bob's life went from fishy-go-lucky to meaningless fishdrums. He swam listlessly around the tank.

And if that wasn't enough, THE MURDER happened. Bob saw it all through the crystal clear pane of glass. The boy at the shop's cash register came up from behind and choked a man with a dog lead. It was horrible! Bob's eyes almost popped out like a fancy bubble-eye fish.

The police came and searched for clues. "No one seems to have seen anything," a uniformed man shrugged. "No witnesses once again."

His co-worker continued writing, "Pet shop killer. That's what the press are calling him. Always in pet shops. Different modes of killing but always involve some reference to pets. Crazy." He shook his head. "Wish we'd get a witness one day."

Bob wished he could be the witness. He tried communicating but of course, no one paid any attention to a goldfish.

"I'm useless all around," he flapped his fins dismally. When the sweeper net-thingy invaded the aquarium, he didn't even try to swim away. Without so much as a tail flap, he prostrated himself on the netting.

~221b~

"Look what I brought you, honey. A little souvenir from my latest case. You keep saying you want another pet." Anderson held up the plastic baggy with Bob inside and smiled proudly.

"A fish? You bought me a dumb goldfish?! You idiot!" Anderson's wife was not impressed. "You think a little fish is going to make up for all those other women? I don't think so." She packed her bags and left for her parent's house in the country that very night.

"Ah, well, I guess it's just you and me tonight, little fishy," Anderson sighed, "and Tabby of course, though I don't know where that darn cat has wandered off to now." He dumped Bob unceremoniously in a small fish bowl. A little gravel and tiny plastic fake seaweed decorated the bowel.

Bob swam in endless circles in the tiny glass bowel. Occasionally Anderson remembered to drop some fish food in his vicinity. The man was preoccupied elsewhere though. He often didn't come home. And, sometimes, when he did, he'd have a strange woman with him and Bob was the last thing on either of their minds.

Tabby occasionally stalked into the house. She survived mainly on the generous spirit of other neighbours who fed her. She never said anything, just stared. Hours of intense watching of Bob as he swam. It made the scales on his body shiver. Those eyes! He wished he could hide. He felt so exposed. The small bowel with the pathetic seaweed strand did not help.

Bob had nightmares. Although he never entered deep sleep since goldfish don't sleep the way humans do, when his mind would drift, it would inevitably turn to Betty. He'd startle with screams bubbling out of his mouth at visions of Betty being captured, Betty being tortured, Betty being strangled by a dog's chain, Betty dying… He yearned to get away from it all. To escape.

Endless days went by. Anderson forgot to change the water. The ammonia levels were intolerable. Bob was slowly suffocating – both physically and psychologically. He just couldn't keep his head below water anymore. He couldn't stay under.

Bob's scales began to fall off from The Ick. The sides of his bowel were green and slimy. Even the plastic plant wilted a bit. Bob was alone in his dark watery fears. He stopped eating. He couldn't sleep a decent fishy sleep. He was restless. His skin burned from the ammonia. His fins were ragged and rotting off. Poor Bob!

One day he spied Tabby on the floor outside his bowel. With the last of his meagre fish power, he leapt out and over the rim of his bowel… Tabby mercifully hastened his end.

~221b~

BUT… don't despair dear reader! Haven't you read, "_All goldfish go to heaven_?"… Bob is now in fishy heaven. After about a year, his fiancée, Betty, joined him. They are happily married with hundreds and hundreds of little baby fish fry.

And they lived happily ever after. The End.

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**A/N: We will be back in the hospital with Sherlock next chapter. **


	11. Ch 11: Falling Waters

**A/N: Written a few days ago but internet and health prevented posting. As always, your reviews never fail to enrich my days. Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: The Usual. Additional warnings apply for sentiment, love, etc. in this chapter.**

**Chapter 11: Falling Waters**

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To the casual observer, the tall, slender man with the dark hair seated in a wheelchair in the hospital corridor, was either sleeping or extremely dull witted. Sherlock was neither. Underneath the hooded eyes, he was keenly watching every detail of hospital routine.

Rachel, his nurse, for example, was the eldest of six siblings. She owned two cats, an orange tabby and Russian grey, judging by the hairs on her socks. She was quite obviously between relationships at the moment. As far as nurses went, Rachel was one of the least annoying.

One day, when his lunch was served, he discovered a very large, and very realistic, spider. Sherlock smiled after the initial startle.

"Never could resist a touch of the dramatic, Mr Holmes," Rachel confessed later when she came to collect the dishes. "Perhaps you could call it, Moriarty." Her eyes twinkled. "I figured you couldn't be too turned off by creepy creatures given the snake incident."

Sherlock feigned innocence.

Rachel just grinned knowingly. "Ok genius, hand over your right arm. I need to take your blood pressure."

He complied. As the cuff tightened and huffed to deflation status, Sherlock looked up at Rachel. "You know, you could just talk to him. He's interested too. Although I myself do not dabble in the ancient chemistry of love and passion, and, in fact, consider love to be a chemical defect on the losing side," he smiled apologetically, "I cannot fail to notice the wasted pheromones and synergistic signals between you and Ryan. As a potential mate, he makes logical sense – of stable mind, sound body, and symmetric face – all of which point to an evolutionary advantageous genetic code."

Rachel stared at Sherlock and her eyes grew wide. "But how?"

"Blindingly obvious even to the most obtuse river otter. Simple statistics."

"Huh? Math shows that I like Ryan?" Rachel was confused.

"Statistically impossible, given your separate jobs and schedules to just "happen" to run into each other in the halls, the break-room, the hospital parking lot….I suspect even the gym." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

Rachel was silent for a few moments while she finished recording Sherlock's vital signs. First, she fought back the urge to punch the arrogant man. _Not very professional_, she concluded, _wouldn't go down too well on her next employee evaluation_. Strangling also crossed her mind. _Again, not so professional and likely to generate an onerous amount of unnecessary paperwork._ At last she simply accepted it.

"You're correct, Mr Holmes." She leaned at the end of his bed and let out a long sigh. "Not matter how obviously you think I'm alerting everyone to my romantic interest in the man, he's never going to notice me. I've tried. I'm not his type, I guess." She straightened up.

"Well, I don't need to unburden my personal life on my patients, least of you, Mr Holmes – self-proclaimed antagonist of all things sentimental and irrational."

"Well," Sherlock made a wry face, "I might sometimes make small adjustments under certain circumstances…"

Rachel laughed. "Anyway, Mr Holmes, he's not going to notice me and well, like you said, I'm wasting my time and efforts on the man. I need to move on." She turned and strode out. "I'll check on you later."

The cold logic machine with pale grey eyes shifted uncomfortably. Somehow he felt a faint trace of sadness for Rachel. It was rather disturbing to note this. "Stupid sentiment", he grumbled to himself.

The detective spent some time exploring certain options. He knew Ryan always passed through this portion of the hospital wing at four thirty on his way to finish up charting before heading home.

With a flourish worthy of a magician, Sherlock pulled the paper from out beneath the cups full of water on his bedside table. He'd almost forgotten this little prank he'd pulled more than once with either mummy or Mycroft. The time out afterward was worth it. He smiled to himself. Timing was everything.

"Nurse, nurse," he pressed his call button urgently.

"Yes, Mr Holmes?" Rachel stepped back into his room. "What do you need?"

Sherlock looked at the clock. Perfect!

"Rachel, it's these dishes over on my table. Please, take them away!" he whined petulantly, his lower lip pouted slightly and his pale eyes turned a mercurial hue. "I want to put my papers there. There's simply no room in this minuscule cell of a room." He huffed in exasperated angry frustration. "It's bad enough being cooped up inside all the time, the least one can do is make sure my space is cleared of extraneous materials – of which these two cups are clearly prime culprits."

Taking a deep breath, after all, Rachel was used to dealing with irate sick patients in the hospital everyday, she stepped into his room over to the side table. "Ok. I'll take the dishes. Just calm down. It's not good for your healing, remember?"

Sherlock only glared from the bed.

Rachel reached for the cups, and too late – the glasses, carefully turned upside down filled with water and appearing empty – released a miniature waterfall cascading down the legs of the table and forming a minor lake on the floor.

"What?!" Rachel was first of all shocked. "Mr Holmes!" she turned accusingly on the irritating patient in the bed who thought to play a practical joke on her. "Why you…"

She was cut short by a finger raised to the detective's lips. "Shhhh.." he motioned urgently. His demeanour completely changed from two seconds previously.

"Ryan, is that you?" he called loudly from his bed to the figure passing by his open room door.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes, just headed home."

"Oh wait, before you go, please, could you help us clean up this minor catastrophe I've just created." He put on his best apologetic expression. "Please."

Ryan sighed but turned back and entered, prepared to help with the calamitous mess. "Just bring those towels hanging by the sink over there, would you?" Sherlock directed.

Ryan grabbed the towels and hurried over to the opposite side of the bed where Sherlock was anxiously peering. "A disaster… all my fault…" he kept shaking his head.

"Oh!" Rachel let out a surprised exclamation when Ryan bumped into her as she reached under the table to sop up the liquid. "Be careful. There's broken glass too."

Carefully, the two medical personnel cleaned up the water and sharp shards. "Thank you so much," Rachel gushed. "You didn't have to help but I really appreciate it." She blushed.

"Turned out to be less tedious than I'd originally thought," Ryan smiled back. Completely ignoring the patient watching them with a bemused expression on his lips, the handsome physiotherapist continued. "How about I take you out for a drink after work? We could practise holding a glass without spilling it." His eyebrows arched with friendly humour.

"I'd like that," Rachel replied.

As the couple trotted off to finish wrapping up their work and being their evening plans, Rachel suddenly stopped and looked back. "We'll toast to your good health, Mr Holmes." She laughed.

Sherlock shrugged and leaned back into his pillow. His eyes closed for a short rest before his next escapade.

* * *

**A/N: Interesting, Sherlock's starting to crack – he's getting all-sentimental. A good sign or something to be worried about? **


	12. Ch 12: The Shower Scene

**A/N: This chapter is written following a series of conversations with Lucy36. The shower scene is all for her since she mentioned she wanted more such watery visions of our bored sociopath. I'm sure she'll maintain she did not dare me to write this but… well, there was the underlying subtext… Many thanks to her pictures of food art too. Sherlock's masterpiece at the end is dedicated to Lucy36 as well.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing new**.

* * *

The patient in room 221, bed B was definitely getting stronger. He would never admit it, but Ryan's gruelling physiotherapy sessions were producing positive results.

"When you go home, which will happen very soon I'm sure, you will be required to continue the exercises you've been doing," Ryan dropped off the sweaty, tired tall man at his room. "You'll still see me, just not on a daily basis. Sort of like easing out of a dead-end relationship." He winked and gave Sherlock an overly eager smile.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug in return. "Don't you realise there are enough people to hate in the world already without going through so much effort to give us another?" he grumbled morosely.

Ryan only chuckled. "Now we know why some animals eat their own children."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. _Strange one, that Ryan_. He'd worry about analysing the insinuations in the man's last sentence later. For now, he wanted a shower.

With a weary groan, he slowly peeled off his sweat-drenched clothing, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and climbed into the hospital shower. It was a relief to be able to stand this time. His muscles ached and the stitches alternated between burning and itching; but at least he could support his erect frame with just his own two legs.

Showers were his personal sanctuary against the ruckus of hospital noises. He adjusted the knob and turned the water on.

Streams of water poured forth and he closed his eyes to enjoy the revitalising watery massage. The warmth instantly relaxed his tight muscles and the pounding of the water across his torso and waist added to the effect. His fatigue began to melt and flow away down the drain as his mind drifted into a semi-detached state from the realities of time.

The bare-arsed detective opened his eyes momentarily. What he saw made his heart suddenly flip-flop in his chest. Involuntarily he gasped as a surge of adrenaline spiked his bloodstream. Red! The water at his feet, cascading off his body and swirling down the drain was a deep crimson current.

No, this couldn't be happening! Sherlock's right hand automatically went to his wounded side. Had his sutures somehow broken, reopening his injury? That would put a damper on his imminent release from the hospital, not to mention the inconvenience of another surgical exploration, re-suturing, and God knows what else! None of the scenarios in his mind were encouraging.

Sherlock's sensitive fingertips pricked themselves on the nylon suture knots. Ouch! He looked down and to his relief noted the neat row of blue nylon sprouts still firmly implanted within his skin. His agile mind quickly took in the red jets of water streaming from the showerhead. From the outside, he figured the scene might look like a gruesome murder with blood splattered across every conceivable surface. Instead, it was just red-coloured water.

The adrenaline levels dissipated and his heart rate returned to normal. He frowned. His pale skin had taken on a ghastly pink hue. He suspected his hair was of a similar aberrant shade. Someone had tampered with the shower in his room. _Who?_

The suspect list was rather large. Plenty of people, both staff and visitors, could easily have snuck into his room and inserted the red-dye into the showerhead. It wouldn't have taken but a couple minutes.

Mycroft? It would be unlikely for his older brother to exert such effort but he couldn't rule out the possibility given what had happened last time they'd met.

The cleaning lady? She certainly didn't bear him any good will after that incident the other night. However, she was quite short. It would have been difficult to reach the showerhead without assistance. There were no telltale marks of a chair she'd have required to reach high enough. For now, he'd place her lower on his suspect list.

Heather, the nurse on duty today? In retrospect, it probably had not been the smartest idea to inform her that all her efforts to improve her looks with weight loss and Botox had not prevented her husband from having an affair with his secretary. She had been a bit curt with him after that, he realised. But surely, she was a professional; she wouldn't resort to such a thing as this?

The dripping wet detective with pinkish hue frowned deeper and furrowed his brows. This was annoying. Too many variables. Not enough data. He needed more information before he could identify the culprit. He didn't like not knowing. He toed the pink whirlpool at his feet noting that the water was gradually losing its red tones.

With a sigh, he pushed the mystery to the back of his mind to be toyed with when further data could be obtained. The water was clear again. Thankfully, with copious amounts of soap, the cherry hues disappeared.

It still took five attempts with the shampoo and vigorous scrubbing before his dark curls lost their red tones. The soap bubbles danced down his upper body and fell cart wheeling down the rest of him finally disappearing through the gaps in the drain. Sherlock let the mist envelope his body blocking out the past and the future. He soaked in the present and breathed in the warmth. He let himself experience the moment in all its fullness. The caressing streams of water. The warmth of the blanketing mist. The muffled sounds of the hospital. He closed his eyes and let it sink into every fibre of his sore body.

Suddenly, the slender man felt his world begin to spin. A wave of dizzying nausea overcame him.

Spinning.

Falling.

Tumbling.

Stumbling.

He tripped and reached out his arms to steady himself as the ground under his feet waffled. For the briefest moment his vision dimmed.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes open and shut several times and shook his head. He turned off the water. "Interesting", he made a mental note of the incident to file away for future reference. "Extended hot showers predispose to a vaso-vagal reflex." He would need to adjust accordingly in subsequent watery escapes.

He stepped out carefully and towelled off. Restoring his damp hair to its orderly state of disorder with practised fingers; he gave himself an approving nod in the mirror, grateful that all traces of red were gone. He dressed for his next excursion.

~221b~

A good disguise isn't about hiding; it's about being invisible in plain sight. He was a natural actor. He was in his element where drama was concerned.

The tall detective strode confidently through the congested corridor of the hospital. No one gave him a second glance as he typed in the key code and entered the staff break room. Keeping his face shadowed, he gave a friendly nod of acknowledgement to the employee having his break. With a few deft movements, he exchanged and rearranged a few things.

"Coffee?" He spoke to the employee still seated at the nearby table.

"Nah, I'll pass on the coffee for the moment, thanks though," the man mumbled from behind the paper.

"I'll just brew a pot. If you change your mind, they'll be plenty left over," Sherlock said good-naturedly. He busied himself with the preparations.

Smiling, he poured a cup of the black brew into a to-go cup and headed toward the door. At the last moment, he grabbed a handful of toothpicks. _For some unknown reason, hospital meals for patients never seemed to provide them._

"Later," he called out as he closed the door behind him. He strode on down the hall alert keen eyes always observing, always deducing. _Chronic lung disease and long standing heart disease. Still smokes even though he tries to hide the fact. Widower and lives in a house with children, most likely his grandchildren, but doesn't like that fact_. Sherlock passed the grey haired gentleman with stained, rounded fingertips in the wheelchair without comment. He could discover the facts but not change them.

He came to another keypad-coded door. The doctor's lounge. Without hesitation, he pressed in the code and entered. It was amazing what a simple stethoscope and name badge nicked from a couple passing nurses could do. He slipped into one of the white coats hanging on the rack and finished his errand. Again, just some minor readjustments. It took less than five minutes. Afterward, he sipped his coffee and read through the latest tabloid with a story by some man, Ford Prefect, predicting the end of the world due to an intergalactic highway. What utter nonsense!

He tossed his paper cup away and hung up the white coat. On his way back to his room, he placed the stethoscope and name badge in the lost-and-found box by the nursing station. His morning duties were complete. He smiled, a satisfied sociopath-with-a-plan smile. If Dr Hoffman did not write his discharge orders for today, by tomorrow, he'd be under a lot of pressure to get him home - ASAP.

"Lunch?" Nurse Heather appeared at his door with his food tray. "I'll just set it here on the table." She placed the tray next to him. Sherlock noted that her fingernails were clear of any red tints. _Unlikely to be the guilty suspect then. _

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at his vegetables. Cooked carrots and salad! What were the dieticians in the food preparation department thinking? He didn't want healthy. He wanted tasty. Carrots, salad, and shrivelled beef were not appealing. Appetite-suppressants, rather.

He ate the dessert. Cheesecake. While he chewed on his contraband toothpick he thoughtfully created his next food masterpiece. Carrot pieces served as the joints. The beef slab worked well as a solid base. The extra toothpicks were the metal struts.

"Very artistic, Mr Holmes," Heather commented with curious raised eyebrow at the enigmatic patient under her charge today. "You sure you never had any leanings toward being an architect? Mind if I snap a picture?"

Sherlock nodded assent without comment. It was surprising how easily ordinary people were impressed.

"First time someone's managed an Eiffel toward with vegetables, toothpicks, and beef." Heather tucked her mobile back into her pocket. "Want another slice of cheesecake? I might be able to manage that for such a talented artist who apparently doesn't like his vegetables." She winked.

"Sure, cheesecake would be fine. Thank you." Sherlock's sombre expression slowly evaporated and he gave a brief smile.

He wondered how long it would be until Dr Hoffman came to visit.

* * *

**A/N: Any guesses on when the doctor will discharge Sherlock home?**


	13. Ch 13: Sgt S Donavan Breaks the Silence

**A/N: One cannot feel benevolent every day. The less-than-kind Sergeant Donavan doesn't bring out the best in Sherlock's sharp tongue either.**

**Disclaimer: All previous disclaimers apply. Do not try these at home!**

* * *

A sharp knock on the frame of the door of his hospital room alerted the healing detective to an unexpected visitor.

"Yes?" He set aside the dessert plate with crumbs of cheesecake still lingering on it.

Not bothering with the formalities of waiting for an invitation to enter, the firm quick steps of Sergeant Sally Donavan echoed across the tiled floor. "You're awake," she commented as she walked briskly over to his bedside.

"Brilliant deductions as ever, Sergeant," Sherlock drawled without raising his eyes.

"Still a freak," she returned.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" the detective's tone hovered chillingly, trying to choose between sarcasm or distain. He picked at a thread coming loose at the corner of his hospital sheet.

"Certainly not me," Sally answered crisply. "D.I. Lestrade insisted I should bring these flowers over. He said to say everyone at the Yard wishes you well and hopes you have a speedy recovery." The look of irritation on her face did not match the words coming out of her mouth.

"Where would you like these then?" She looked down at the flower bouquet held awkwardly in her arms.

Sherlock looked up at the huge display.

Without waiting for an answer, Sally picked up the discarded dessert platter, frowning in displeasure, and plopped the bouquet in its place. "God, Sherlock, you can't even keep a clean hospital room!" She wrinkled her nose in obvious contempt.

"At least I manage to sleep in my own bed," Sherlock answered. He turned the bouquet and plucked out the card clutched within its branches. _Best Wishes, NSY_, he read.

He turned and looked up pointedly at Sally. "Whatever's eating at you must be suffering horribly, Sergeant."

Sally stared down at the pale slender features of the coolly detached detective before her. Her lip curled into a slight sneer.

Sherlock shrugged and slowly replaced the card with his long, arachnid fingers. "I've come across rotting bodies that are less offensive than you are, you know."

Sally's hand went to her hip in shocked outrage. Her eyes narrowed. "Too bad it was only your body that was injured, might have been an improvement in your face otherwise."

"Keep talking, Sergeant Donavan. Someday you might actually say something intelligent." Sherlock was not one to back down in a battle of wits.

"Whoever let you out of your cage deserves to be tied to a post and eaten by flesh-eating fire ants until only their screaming bones remain." Sally glared at the detective. Her eyes silently dared him to continue.

Sherlock sighed. "Are you always this stupid or is today a special occasion?" His pupils contracted into two steel-tipped daggers. "I'd like to see things from your point of view, but I just can't seem to get my head that far up your arse."

"Too many freaks. Not enough circuses." Sally muttered under her breath, the anger boiling under her dark hued skin. "Are you the first person in your family to be born without a tail? Oh, I bet that was your brother, Mycroft, right? You probably still have a tail."

"You know, Sergeant, if you made an effort, you might actually grow on people," he cocked his head and looked sideways up at her, "sort of like cancer."

Sally scowled. "You're a freak, Sherlock Holmes. People follow you anywhere – out of morbid curiosity."

"You should do some soul-searching," he replied blandly, "you might just find one. Unlikely but," he squinted up at the Sergeant, "stranger things have happened."

"I don't have to take this anymore, freak," Sally growled.

"Do return my thanks to D.I. Lestrade for the well wishes and flowers," Sherlock called after her receding figure. "It's good to see that you're not letting your education get in the way of your ignorance."

The Sergeant stream-rolled out the door and down the hospital corridor at a rapid pace. "Any resemblance to a human being is purely coincidental!" Her hands clenched tightly at her waist. Sherlock was a freak!

The man in question remained placidly under the white sheets while his lips gradually twisted into a fiendish smile. "She's clearly, quite cruelly, depriving a village somewhere of an idiot," he mumbled to the flowers next to him.

He wondered how long it would take her to figure out he'd slipped one of those magnetic security strips into the battery casing of her mobile. Must be a bit embarrassing for a police officer to have to explain why their belongings kept setting off the burglar alarm at the shopping centre. He allowed himself a tiny congratulatory shiver of triumph to tingle up his spine.

Then he massaged his temples with the palms of his fingers. Sally always left him with a headache. He shook his dark ruffled feathers back into place with a shudder and attempted to smooth away her exasperating memory. Well, at any rate, it shouldn't take her too long to discover her car keys were missing.

Sherlock rolled over, careful to avoid tugging at the stitches in his skin as he crawled out of bed. He picked up the used dish with cake crumbs. Licking up the fragments with his fingers, he stepped lightly out into the corridor and deposited the dirty plate on a passing food trolley. He dropped the Sergeant's keys into the lost-and-found box at the nursing station.

Dr Hoffman was late for his hospital rounds today. He frowned impatiently.


	14. Ch 14: Final Discharge Orders

**Final Discharge Orders**

"I believe you might have heard about the minor emergency in the doctor's lounge," Dr Hoffman strolled into Sherlock's hospital room with his eyes still preoccupied on catching up on the latest reports of his patient's healing process.

"Emergency?" Sherlock turned to acknowledge the doctor's presence.

"More like a petty annoyance, really." He waved his hand dismissively and frowned as he noted something on the chart.

Sherlock followed the doctor's expression intently while feigning indifference.

"Bit of a nuisance cleaning up the coffee that the first fellow spat halfway across the room," he arched an eyebrow as he came to another line in the chart, not yet looking up at Sherlock.

"Oh, well, yeah, guess that would be a bit of a bother," the detective in bed agreed.

"Well, that wasn't the worst of it apparently," he continued, "the kettle in the employee break room went on strike and the coffee pods that are normally stashed in the cupboards disappeared. You can imagine the consternation amongst us all at the thought of having to go through an entire shift without a proper cup of tea."

He glanced over at Sherlock for a brief second.

Sherlock stayed quiet and just nodded.

After a rather long pause, the doctor resumed his monologue. "As I was saying, almost turned into a major catastrophe until one of the new technicians figured out how to reset things." He shook his head.

"And the missing coffee?"

"Ah well, I think someone found it eventually. Not the first place one would look for coffee, although," he made a wry face, "in retrospect, might have looked for it sooner in the pharmacy. It was under the letter 'C'- next to the Codeine, I believe."

Sherlock tilted his head marginally, "And was the sugar next to the sucralfate?"

Dr Hoffman chose to ignore the last question as he finished perusing all of Sherlock's medical reports for the day. He strode over to the bedside. "I hear you're hoping to go home soon?" It was more a statement than question but Sherlock nodded in affirmation anyway.

"Mr Holmes, I've examined your file, listened to the reports from your medical care team, and made my own investigations – may I?" he indicated the chair next to the bed.

Sherlock flicked his eyes in assent.

"I know you're a detective. You're used to observing details. Physicians are also trained in the art of observation. It's part of our job to observe and draw conclusions from our examinations."

He paused and caught the gaze of the detective who by now was calculating all the possible reasons for Dr Hoffman's statement.

"Mr Holmes, I've observed you."

"As have hundreds of others, I presume," Sherlock replied with a margin of sarcasm.

"There is more under the surface than you lead people to think. You are not such the invincible sociopath that you try to make others believe."

"Oh?"

"I look at the papers you read, the stacks of tabloids in your room that you pretend to ignore, as much as you won't admit it, you do care what other people have to say about the world's only consulting detective. And yet," he paused, "you're not all ego because you will often take on cases that are seemingly insignificant for people who could never pay you for your efforts."

Sherlock remained impassive, listening, while Dr Hoffman continued.

"You claim to be opposed to sentiment but I'm not so blind as to miss how nurse, Rachel who has had a crush on our physiotherapist, Ryan for ages, suddenly begins going out with him after an "incident" in your room. Coincidence? I think not." He smiled at the detective trying not to appear interested in his deductions.

"You claim to be a solo entrepreneur in your work. Work that you do for the sake of keeping your overactive mind occupied but I've seen the scars, looked at the x-rays… some pretty significant injuries in your past of which I doubt you'd have received if it hadn't been for a higher calling than just your work." He arched an eyebrow significantly at the detective who shifted uncomfortably in bed.

"The night shift staffs tell me how you sleep very little at night. There's more to your nervous ticks, your restlessness, the constant need for external stimulation than simply a bored brain."

Sherlock stared at the doctor. He wasn't used to being examined like this. He was supposed to be the eye looking through the microscope; not the other way around. He wasn't sure he liked being the specimen under the magnifying lens. He felt exposed and pulled the hospital blanket higher up over himself.

"Mr Holmes," the doctor gave Sherlock a knowing look, "I'm not here to give away all your secrets. My observations remain confidential just like the rest of your medical history. But there is more to your heart than maybe even you can acknowledge. Nothing wrong with occasionally giving your inner soul permission to feel lonely or letting your friends help heal the pain that is in you."

Dr Hoffman sighed and stood up. "Not here to make a long speech. I can see from your chart that you are well enough to continue the healing process at home. I'll write the discharge orders today. I'm sure that's what you really wanted to hear from me, after all." He smiled sadly down at the young and far-too-serious man in the hospital bed.

"I've rather enjoyed your creative escapades in the hospital these past few days. I wish you all the very best in your recovery. Underneath all the jokes, smug smiles, and arrogant deductions, I see a man that has a heart that cares far more deeply than he can admit sometimes."

Sherlock looked up and gave Dr Hoffman a pained smile.

Dr Hoffman made as to leave then abruptly stopped and instead bent over and whispered something into Sherlock's ear.

The detective's eyes widened in surprise and then blinked in astonishment.

"Take it as some friendly advice from an old man who's lived a few extra years," Dr Hoffman strode toward the door.

Sherlock remained with shocked expression. For once, he couldn't think of a suitable reply.

"Dr Bell used to be one of my mentors in medical school," Dr Hoffman added.

The doctor turned and strode out of the room, "Goodbye, Mr Holmes. And, sincerely, I hope you find healing for your heart as well."

Sherlock was quiet.

~221b~

"Ready to go home?" John pushed the wheelchair into his friend's hospital room.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He was seated on the edge of his hospital bed, dressed in something other than a hospital gown for once.

"Clearly," he gave the wheelchair a disdainful glare.

"Sorry, hospital policy," Rachel, Sherlock's nurse for the day poked her way into the room. "I'll push you down to your ride outside. Your friend can carry your things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Just one more way hospitals humiliated patients.

"I know what you're thinking, Mr Holmes," Rachel glanced over at her charge. "Don't bother arguing. It's not worth the time. You'll be out of here sooner if you just get in now."

Without further comment, Sherlock resigned himself to the wheelchair. "Stupid policy."

"Mrs Hudson can hardly contain herself. I had a hard time convincing her to stay home and wait for you," John remarked, changing the subject. "Finally convinced her it would be more worth her while to cook us a decent meal for when we get back."

"Hospital food is not what it used to be, John," Sherlock commented dryly "… and it did not use to be much."

"So much the better for appreciating Mrs Hudson's cooking then, huh?" John agreed with his friend's assessment too.

As the trio reached the ground floor, an announcement overhead from the hospital operator suddenly stopped them in their tracks. Sherlock's blood froze. "Mr Holmes, please report to patient registration immediately."

"What have you done?" John turned to his friend with confused concern.

"Nothing, honest!" He racked his brain for anything he might have missed that would warrant an emergency announcement like this. He could think of no good reason. The Sergeant had already retrieved her keys and left in a cloud of foul humour. It couldn't be her demanding his return.

"Never mind, I'm sure it's something we can settle quickly and still get you home today," Rachel spoke with practised positive cheerfulness. She turned the wheelchair around and headed back into the bowels of the hospital.

"Surprise!" A familiar group of hospital workers greeted Sherlock as Rachel and John entered the hospital reception waiting room.

"Dr Hoffman stepped forward, "Several of my staff apparently felt the need to give you a proper send-off. Seems you've made more of an impression than you might have imagined." He reached out and shook Sherlock's hand, helping him to a standing position.

The dark-haired detective, still somewhat dazed by the curious turn of events, breathed a sigh of relief that he was not re-admitted. John and Rachel stepped back into the sidelines and watched as the consulting detective shook hands and exchanged goodbye well wishes with nurses, technicians, physiotherapist, nursing aids, phlebotomist, janitor, and even a few fellow hospital patients.

"Shan't miss the false cardiac alarms," Lydia said.

"My kids were thrilled with the goldfish," Joyce smiled.

Sherlock gave a nervous smile when he reached nurse Janet. "All about timing, Mr Holmes," she reassured.

"You were right. She said yes." Sherlock gave Rick a congratulatory nod on his engagement.

"Still not a fan of snakes, Mr Holmes," Jenny reached out hesitantly to shake the detective's hand. Satisfied he didn't have any up his sleeve, she wished him well.

Mr Isaacs looked sideways over a Jenny. "Don't worry about her, Mr Holmes. You were brilliant with that fake snake scare. Best part of this entire hospitalisation. Pity to see you go but I wish you all the best."

Sherlock came to the young Jeremy and lowered his eyes momentarily but the nurse aid just laughed. "It's fine, Mr Holmes. No hard feelings."

With a nod then, the detective slipped a pen into the man's scrub pocket. "Compliments of the British government. This one actually works."

"Keep up the good work with the physiotherapy," Ryan pumped Sherlock's arm a bit too enthusiastically. He winced.

"You'll be on my mind, Ryan, more than I'd like, I'm sure."

"I still can't believe how you set Ryan and me up – but," Rachel giggled, "it worked. Brilliant job. We shan't forget you, believe me."

"I won't forget you two either," Sherlock rubbed his aching shoulder for a moment.

Last of all, Dr Hoffman shook the slender man's outstretched hand. He looked into the shadowed depths of the eyes of a man who danced eternally between the fractured light of day and the mysteries of the moonless night. "Mr Holmes, I meant everything I said earlier. I wish you all the best finding your way home." He paused with a thoughtful expression. "Second chances. Use wisely."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you, doctor."

"Oh, and Mr Holmes,"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I think you forgot something."

"Um…I don't think so." The good doctor must be mistaken. Sherlock had been thorough in gathering all his possessions.

Dr Hoffman eyes twinkled. "Isn't this your phone?" he held up a familiar mobile.

Sherlock froze. Momentary shock skittered across his face. A new admiration dawned upon his features. Definitely more to Dr Hoffman than he'd originally deduced.

"It's all in the art of distraction." He handed over the mobile to Sherlock's outstretched palm and smiled. "Take care. Not everyone is as they seem on the surface."

"True." Sherlock turned and waved a last goodbye as Rachel wheeled him toward the open exit doors with John keeping pace at his side.

From behind he suddenly heard a chorus of voices. His face broke out with an ominous glint of mischief.

"What did you do?" John demanded with a suspicious frown. He recognised that smile only too well. The last time he'd seen it was when Sherlock had blown up their microwave during an experiment with Chinese firecrackers.

"Shhhh.. listen," Sherlock put a finger to his lips.

"What the hell?!"

"Whose keys are these?"

"Hey! These aren't mine."

"Bugger!"

"If I have your keys then who has my keys?"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, just you wait…"

Sherlock leaned back in the wheelchair with a satisfied sigh. "Back to Baker Street, then, John?"

John quirked a puzzled eyebrow in the direction of all the commotion.

"Didn't you hear Dr Hoffman. It's all in the art of distraction, John."

Rachel shook her head, "Unbelievable, Mr Holmes. I suspect I'd better get you out the door quick, before they finish sorting out their keys." She patted her own pocket and pulled out the familiar metal ring just to be sure then helped him into his waiting car. "Bye, Mr Holmes, at least it's not boring when you're around."

_Operation Ennui Concluded_

* * *

"We do not retreat from reality, we rediscover it. As long as the story lingers in our mind, the real things are more themselves... By dipping them in myth we see them more clearly." - C.S. Lewis

* * *

A/N: There is a time for everything, including endings to fun stories.

Many thanks to all those who've read along with me and encouraged the continuation of Sherlock's hospital escapades: **TheGyrhan, WY Traveller, Book girl fan, briogloid fiodoir, Alice Wright, englishtutor, infinitesparkle, mrspencil, mapleleafcameo, johnsarmylady, EJBRUSH1952, I'm Nova, Arty Diane, Lucy36, rosieiswatching, paula .a. rushing , sapienlover, Sierra Wood**,** lollypopGuild-UK****,elbafo a**nd any others I might have forgotten.


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